


Onesie for two

by Serenhawk



Series: Cockles in the Wild [8]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Dads in onesies, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, my porn skills are rusty, this is probably an M but I rounded up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: Misha receives an unwanted gift from Jensen on behalf of Danneel, and gets more than he never even bargained for.





	Onesie for two

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year!!!
> 
> Thanks (and you're welcome) to @widowwinchester for the prompt, which came about following Danneel's Instagram post of Jensen holding the twins while wearing a fire engine red onesie.  
> Also my peers in the Cockles Co-op for the boost and encouragement.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect is intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

“What's this?”

Misha’s face wore an expression somewhere between diffident and wary as he looked at the flat, navy box Jensen had presented him. He’d barely been able to kiss him hello after the holiday break, and they were using up precious warming bodily-contact time when he’d specifically said 'no personal gifts' this year, belated or otherwise.

“It was all Dani,” Jensen explained, putting a lid on his initial enthusiasm, but he was unable to stop the five-year-old boy peeking through which still—even on the cusp of forty—lurked in his features. “She felt stocking her with raspberry jam for the next year required an exchange.”

“Blackberry,” Misha replied, doubly suspicious if Danneel had orchestrated it. “Not raspberry,” he added absently, pressing his lips together and prying off the decorated top. Misha dug through several layers of tissue to find what was underneath. “What is this?” he repeated, brushing fingertips over the spongy, brushed fabric.

“Just look and see.” Jensen’s tone had made a short left turn into exasperation.

Misha raised the contents with both arms, which unfolded in a cascade to his chilly feet.

“It’s a onesie,” Jensen supplied, in case Misha was in any doubt.

“So I’m discovering.” It wasn’t _sooo_ bad: black, with a light aztec type pattern across the hood, chest and ankle, and the material was luxuriously soft. But it was still _a onesie._

He should never have messaged his boyfriend’s mischievous wife with his favorable thoughts on the family photos she’d sent of their whole clan wearing them. There were ways he found great satisfaction and rewards in being incorporated as a familial extension, but matching novelty clothing wasn’t one of them.

Jensen crossed his arms, ready for battle. “You said I looked cute in mine.”

“That’s because at the time I was devising elaborate ways of getting you out of it.”

“So,” Jensen began, smirking at his watch, “I figure we have time to both put them on, and you can put those thoughts into action. Deal?”

This wasn’t  _precisely_ what he'd arrived early and knocked on Jensen’s door for but it was a development he could get on board with, and in the short term it did feel like it had the potential to be very warm.  “You drive a hard bargain,” Misha conceded, harboring prejudice against the garment it probably didn’t deserve. He was more than at home dressing in almost anything—hell, he wore costumes and dignity-destroying accessories _f_ _or a living_ —including materials that didn’t remotely resemble clothing at all, so he should probably examine why this particular item was beyond the pale.

Jensen’s brows did a bawdy dance before he disappeared back into the small bedroom, leaving Misha to divest himself of his shoes and jeans. He wasn’t entirely sure what one is supposed to wear under these things—if anything—so he left on his underwear, socks and tee, and his wool cap, because while the long trailer was a tropical sanctuary compared to the icy exterior, it was still warming up after being idle for several weeks during the coldest cold snap anyone could remember.

Closing the long zip up the front he was pleasantly surprised at the cocoon effect, and the texture against his legs made him almost sorry he wasn’t completely naked underneath. Raising his arms and then each knee, he experimented with the range of movement, which is when Jensen chose to return clad neck to toe in bright red fleece along with the cream beanie he’d had on since Misha had arrived.

Jensen grinned. “Cute, but you’re not in a marching band.”

“Fuck off,” Misha replied zealously, then looked down again. “I suppose it’s not _that_ ridiculous.”

“If it helps, I was in camp nope too. But Dee pointed out I was wrong.”

“No wonder she and Vicki get along,” Misha remarked. “What I don’t understand, is how you’re supposed to take a leak and not freeze to death.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Quit being dramatic,” he said, stalking closer. “I only have a half hour before makeup and you’re wasting it whining.”

“And here I was under the misapprehension I’d missed you,” Misha parried, even as Jensen menacingly crammed him against the low table - at least as menacing as anyone could be while resembling a sleek, randy Santa Claus.

Misha met his look and raised it with a flinty smolder, squaring his chest to soak in the heat and nearness of Jensen’s torso. Jensen affecting toppishness seldom failed to charm him, though it would never result in an Emmy nomination. The kiss that was bestowed on him next, however, was a different kind of authoritative; dry and confident lips parting his with a teasing lick along the seam and ending on a smile. “I’ll make you admit you did,” Jensen murmured, issuing a challenge against the corner of Misha’s mouth.

He wasn’t afforded the opportunity to either agree or protest as his flapped hat was re-situated to parts unknown and his face firmly cupped by Jensen’s hands; any half-formed words were subsequently sucked right off the end of his tongue. Instead Misha let Jensen conduct and tried to guess just how many cups of coffee he’d had by the second hand flavor while melting into their reunion. As the kiss trailed off he wrapped his own palms over the ones holding him, gradually easing them off and downward to fold them behind Jensen’s hips, able to finally lock his arms in an all-too-easy reversal of dominion.

“See?” Jensen said, victorious as Misha left the kiss to begin mouthing along the ridge of his five-day beard. He charted a course downwards, nipping the vaguely ticklish tendon in Jensen’s neck.

“I haven’t admitted a thing—” Misha returned upon reaching the binding on Jensen’s collar. He used the break in proceedings to maneuver them so Jensen was the one backed into the furniture, adding “—other than I still would rather neither of us were in these utterly impractical clothes.”

Jensen didn’t seem to be upset with either the resulting immobility or Misha’s suggestion, if the greedy dilation evident in his eyes was any indication. He nudged his hips into Misha’s. “Time’s ticking,” he reminded impishly.

Misha surrendered the restraint so he could begin working the zipper down from the hollow in Jensen’s throat all the way to his waist. Jensen had chosen to wear no undershirt and Misha took full advantage, palming at his chest before landing on the budding nipples with a merciless pinch. The subsequent roll under his thumbs was involuntarily echoed by Jensen’s pelvis, the accompanying bite of his bottom lip an overture to Misha take whatever he might want.

“I suppose I’ve missed your mouth,” Misha offered conspicuously, mimicking Jensen’s heat-seeking rut before taking a slow half a step back. Jensen’s gaze hungrily followed as Misha began sliding the zipper on his gift down, well aware the effect was not going to be half as decadent as exposing the expanse of Jensen’s lightly speckled and touchable skin, but his filling dick—which he reminded himself was at Jensen’s behest—was quickly giving up notions of style in favor of impending substance.

However, he ran into a problem an inch below his navel when the zip ran aground, it taking a few awkward moments of wrestling to realize the obstruction was more than momentary. “Umm—” he began, abandoning the mood.

“Need some help there?” Jensen said, more cocky than concerned.

“No!” Misha argued, out of habit, becoming more frustrated as he peered down. “I just—” He pulled a little harder, then saw the problem: the aged cotton of his tee had caught in the chunky zipper a little above the hem. Scrunching his chin more, he attempted to tease it out, but it was stuck fast. He feared he might rip the t-shirt, and it was one of his sentimental favorites. “Shit,” he finally said, yanking fruitlessly at the small metal tag standing between him and what he knew from blessed experience was likely to be highly enjoyable blowjob.

Misha looked up, glowering, to see Jensen less disappointed than amused. “Lemme try,” Jensen said, launching forward. He bent to examine the issue. “That’s really stuck,” he proclaimed unhelpfully while Misha occupied his hands by fussing at what he strongly suspected was unattractive hat-hair. “Ya know my daughter got the hang of zips before she was two.”

“Fuck off," he answered.

Jensen, undeterred by Misha’s exasperation straightened and prowled closer, edging Misha backwards before he even realized what was happening.

“What’re you doing?” Misha asked, as if it wasn’t obvious when Jensen’s hand slipped against his stomach in the available gap to ruck up his shirt.

“Looks like the shoe’s on the other foot,” Jensen answered, throaty and wolfish. Misha’s rear and shoulders hit the cupboard door simultaneously, just as fingers dipped inside his waistband to snake around his shamelessly hopeful cock.

“Mmngh,” was all he could say, tension breaking and regrouping as desire as Jensen gripped him and launched straight into a series of long, experimental strokes.

“Are you—mmm— How’re—”

“Shuddup Mish,” Jensen interrupted, moderating an uncharacteristic command with a whisper. “If you wanna get off, you’re going to have to let me lead.”

“Bu—”

“Ah! Zip it,” Jensen admonished, emerald eyes brimming with intent.

For once, Misha obeyed. Not out of any need to capitulate, but because this was an interesting turn of events and he could afford to see where it went. Jensen’s hands were as nimble and considered as the rest of him, so despite the awkward angle dictated by the limits of the entangled zipper, it promised to go somewhere gratifying.

“Okay, cowboy,” he conceded, relaxing his arched brow.

“Good,” Jensen growled, riding a wave of control. “Now, don’t move an inch.”

Jensen withdrew his hand and turned, leaving Misha in a state of temporary confusion until he saw him re-emerge from the tiny bathroom while replacing the cap on a small tube. _Oh thank fuck,_ Misha said internally, relieved at Jensen’s consideration. Dry was okay, but wet was almost always preferable.

Discarding it on the counter, Jensen rubbed the fingers on his right hand while fishing for Misha’s underwear with the left, holding the elastic free to fit his lubed fingers in the gap unimpeded. Misha kept his eyes on his face, admiring the surety and focus with which Jensen moved. He even granted himself a small moment of pride.

The moment was short-lived as the return of Jensen’s touch filled his senses. He was harder than when Jensen had left him a minute earlier, a fact that wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jensen smiled, calculating. “I’m gonna make you come so hard you’ll have a headache,” he declared, so low and soft in Misha’s ear he could barely make out the words. The vibrations however, traveled straight to his dick, now at the mercy of Jensen’s uniform strokes.

“Hands behind your back, no touching,” Jensen commanded, and took to his task in earnest. Misha didn’t remember saying anything after that, though words occasionally came to mind; feathers floating through his brain unattached to any purpose before drifting out of range. Jensen worked him hard, edging him quickly to a precipice then backing off, alternating with swift pumps and curving strokes so that any rhythm never quite lasted long enough, and torturing him with occasional mild flicks before kneading his balls. He probably would have hated it just as much as his cock seemed delighted with the attention, but Jensen kept him distracted with minuscule bites along his jaw and a steady stream in his left ear of the dirtiest language he’d ever heard, and that was saying something. Some of the acts Jensen described were things he'd never have guessed he knew about, which vaguely made him wonder where he’d had been undertaking research.

Just when he was becoming over-sensitized and spots began clouding his vision with the effort of riding the cusp, Jensen slowed, making infuriating but steady passes to the root punctuated with pulsing swipes teasing the tip. Misha moved, unable to help it and not caring no longer about Jensen’s little experiment. Clutching at Jensen’s hip with one hand, he reached up and brushed off the beanie still covering the freckled head from the eyebrows up. Letting it fall he laced his fingers into Jensen’s thatched hair and pulled, hard. “Don’t stop,” he all but snarled into Jensen’s impossibly serene gaze.

Any pain Jensen may have felt flashed through his eyes for only a split second before it was replaced by hunger. Evening out his movements, Jensen tightened his grip ever so slightly and increased the pace.

Misha’s mouth fell open as the tempo resumed just a shade less than where he needed it to be. Closing his eyes, he met Jensens strokes with shallow thrusts, chasing the contact to summon his orgasm himself.

“I love you like this,” Jensen purred in front of his face, before kissing him; the kind of soul-fucking kiss where oxygen is a scarcity and who cares because you’ll happily starve anyway. This— _this—_ was the moment the taut thrum of his body flared and convulsed. He gasped into Jensen’s mouth as he came, searing white-hot arcs behind his eyelids preceding the pulses that soiled them both while Jensen caressed him through the swell and out the other side.

Forehead slumped on Jensen’s shoulder, the last few static sparks died as he was massaged down with lingering touches, then tucked away. He could barely feel his feet, but a cooling sheen of sweat alerted him to how much of a mess he was. Retaking his own weight he straightened and focused on Jensen, who looked mostly unaffected but for scruffy hair and the ridge of his arousal lying in wait. By contrast, a quick glance down revealed his tee bunched under his ribs and semen splatter littering his stomach, briefs and black weave of the onesie, now stretched loose at the waist while skewed taut over his left shoulder. Jensen silently added the final defilement by wiping his fingers at Misha’s hip.

None of it, however, could ruin the spectacular afterglow. “Happy New Year to me,” he said with a buzzed smile.

Jensen grinned and kissed him again, light and fond. “I’m not sure this will survive,” he observed, plucking at the dark fabric.

“Hmm,” Misha agreed. “Please give my regards to your wife though,” he added, making Jensen chuckle; a dark, silvery sound that revived Misha’s original intent.  Just as he grabbed at Jensen’s open zipper a courteous but loud knock sounded at the door.

“That’ll be my pre-call call,” Jensen sighed. “Did they know you were in here?”

“Yeah I saw— oh.” Jensen laughed again as Misha caught on. “What about you?” he sulked.

Jensen palmed his groin and performed a rearranging jig. “I’m fine - I can take a raincheck,” he assured, zipping up and retrieving his beanie from the floor to don it along with the padded jacket draped on the couch. “You though, have a problem on your hands.”

“But...what if I need help?” Misha objected, pulling at the clothing he was still securely fastened into.

“Then call someone.” Jensen winked and opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air.

“I can’t—you can’t leave me like this! Look at me,” Misha said plaintively to Jensen’s retreating back. “This is your fault!”

The door slammed shut, locking him in, alone. After a few minutes of twisted contortions he came to the realization the already abused garment was not going to outlive it's first wearing. Rummaging in the kitchenette he found a pair of scissors and managed to cut himself free, which made it easier to finally and carefully loosen his shirt from the remains of the zip. At least _that_ was unharmed, if one didn’t count the drying jizz stains.

He pulled out his phone, thinking he’d better take care of one last matter then clean himself up, and maybe he'd even have time for a post-endorphin nap on Jensen's bed since he was here anyway.

Misha pulled up a text string.

 **> Thank you for the thoughtful gift**   he messaged formally to Danneel.

 **< _POIDH!!_** _w_ as the immediate response.

Misha looked at the tattered remnants on the floor and heaved a sigh. He hoped it wasn’t too expensive or local, and resigned his credit card to its fate.

**> Sure. Just out of interest, where did you buy it?**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 


End file.
